Saturday Night Fish Fry (After Hours)

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Here's an unpublished (so to speak) set of Beatles tunes performed live by Frank Zappa and his ill-fated "best band you never heard in your life," from a 1988 concert in Helsinki.



I reckon Sir Paul will authorize commercial release of these recordings by the Zappa Family Trust about the time he officially designates Heather Mills as the Fifth Beatle.

Two things stand out to me in this clip: the quaint topicality of the lyrics and the technical acumen of both the musicians and the engineers in echoing the studio-type feel of the original Beatles recordings.

At this point in Frank's life, he was preoccupied by (among many other things) how TV evangelism had infused US politics with a sinister overtone, and so he was delighted when preachers like Jim Bakker and Jimmy Swaggart were publicly exposed as sexual "perverts" and moral hypocrites, and he gleefully used it as "material." Most of the lyrics here focus on Swaggart, whose sex scandal broke into the news during the band's 1988 tour. But these were the waning days of the second Reagan administration, with the Iran-Contra affair and other Republican outrages having broken the windshield of our little democracy flivver and flattened three of its tires while the President drifted into senility. So we hear Zappa's mocking references to such one-hit wonders as National Security Advisor Admiral Poindexter and Attorney General Ed Meese. I think Zappa's parody lyrics are at their best when they remain vulgar and playful, as opposed to the more coarsely obscene texts for which he became infamous (in the Clean World, at least). In these pieces he veers over into the "obscene" lane, but arguably expresses no greater magnitude of depravity than Swaggart guiltily preached on any given day in his ministry. And all these lyrics are based on True Facts---set to the music of the Fab Four!

As one commenter on this video said (but for a different implied reason than I would give, and with which I disagree), the Beatles could not have performed most of these songs live with anywhere near the fidelity that FZ and his band accomplish in this performance. That's partially explained by the level of sophistication that synthesizer technology had reached by the end of his career, but much more so by Zappa's almost-supernatural ears and almost-peerless skills as an arranger. The musicians must also be credited for their technical skills, but as herded and over-rehearsed by FZ and---worse---a junior musician whom he put in charge of drilling the band on a daily basis as his own health began to emerge as a debilitating problem. Because of his stature, Zappa could get away with rehearsal schedules that could fairly be called abusive, but his second-tier foreman couldn't command the same obedience. So Zappa's musicians revolted and the band fell apart halfway through the world tour. (Strangely, Wikipedia doesn't have any account of this major milestone in Zappa's career---the end of it as a performing musician, to be exact---so I can't link to it.)

This video presents the same 12-piece band documented live on Broadway the Hard Way, The Best Band You Never Heard In Your Life, and Make A Jazz Noise Here, which Zappa issued to help him recover from a financial loss of about half a million dollars (in an era when that probably meant twice as much as it does today). Broadway is the most broadly (hurhurhurrrr) appealing, but bristles with Reagan-era political topicality that isn't universal enough to have aged well. The others have a few high points, but come across as thrown-together filler tour tapes. The Beatles suite played here is much more entertaining and respectful of the source material than the pointlessly condescending covers of "Purple Haze" and "Stairway To Heaven" that show up on Best Band.

I think FZ really believed that this lineup was in fact his best band ever. From a technical standpoint, that would be his call to make. But as a fan, I've never gotten much enjoyment from his '80s ensembles. They achieved their precision and impressive responsiveness to Zappa's extemporaneous direction through the maestro's extreme exercise of control and, as I say, over-rehearsal to the point of sounding brittle underneath it all. Nevertheless, this particular segment sounds more relaxed and human than I've come to expect from Zappa's latter-day aggregations.

What do you think? Does this music do anything for you?

Beatles Suite, Frank Zappa and band (1988, live in Helsinki, Finland, provenance of recording unknown), via YouTube, embedded for noncommercial critical discussion and educational purposes.

Editor's note: as Fifty50 readers who have taken Music Appreciation will observe, this music isn't actually a medley, but a regular sequence of songs with each having a segue into the next.

Saturday Night After Hours

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Here's an oddly glorious-sounding ditty from the soundtrack of Frank Zappa's out-of-print movie 200 Motels.



I just happened to listen to my CD version of this tonight whilst making a batch of Utility Research Muffins, Bluberry-Orange, and felt like sharing it with the rest of yez.

They lyrics represent a lament of the late-sixties rock star, who it would seem did not always necessarily have access to the highest-class of groupie after any given show (particularly in a place like "Centerville: A Real Nice Place To Raise Your Kids Up." The falsetto vocals are by Turtles singers Howard Kaylan and Mark Vollman, who formed the core of Zappa's "vaudeville band." (The bass player in this aggregation was Jim Pons, yet another Turtles alumnus.) The subject matter of this band was heavily skewed toward obscene, surreal vignettes from "life on the road," which also was the theme (such as it was) for the movie.

It's hard for me to put my finger on what I like about the timbre of the organ in this one. It's churchy and industrial and atmospheric all at once, with lots of colorful fat-fingered dissonances. The trombone is used in an unusual way in this cut, too, being the only wind instrument in evidence. Even more unusual: it's played by George Duke, known pretty much exclusively for keyboards in subsequent versions of the Mothers and, later, in the jazz world at large. The reverb of pretty much everything is both completely over the top and just right to my earbones.

Another oddity: the mix on this version sounds significantly different from my CD on Ryko. don't know if the poster took this from the vinyl or the VHS movie soundtrack, or if the CD was released more than once with different mixes. Zappa was notorious for doing ridiculous things with the mixes and edits on CD reissues... and not necessarily well loved for it by his fans. In this case, though, the mix on this version is fine by me---it just highlights sounds and nuances that aren't apparent on any version I've heard recently. One day I will pull out the vinyl, wipe it down, and give it a hear.

What Will This Evening Bring Me This Morning? Frank Zappa and The Mother Of Invention (1971, from the "original MGM motion picture soundtrack" of "Frank Zappa's 200 Motels," Rykodisc RCD 10513/14), via YouTube, embedded for noncommercial critical discussion and educational purposes.

Saturday Night (After Hours)

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If you're like me---and who isn't?---you'll agree that this tune would be a good soundtrack for demolishing something or someone. First savagely, then with surgical deliberation. Then savagely again, and again. And again.



Not that I would ever do such a thing.

I think this track offers a very rare combination of rhythmic sophistication, meaningful dissonance, electric lyricism, and brute force. I think I'll categorize it as "Lummox Art Rock."

Please conform to the usual routine: earbuds jammed into the tympanum or cans epoxied to the side of your skull, turned up to 11 if your device supports that many megatons. Apologies to anyone who was expecting "Lollipops And Roses" by the Tijuana Brass tonight.

Lark's Tongues In Aspic, Part II, King Crimson (1973, from "Lark's Tongues in Aspic," Atlantic SD 7263), via YouTube, embedded for noncommercial critical discussion and educational purposes.

Saturday Night Fish Fry (after hours)

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My favorite version of the two 1970 vinyl releases by Joe Cocker:



Strangely, whenever I hear Cocker's performance of The Letter on my local FM feed of a generic corporate oldies "station," they do not play the one that actually charted on Top 40 AM radio. Instead they play the album cut, taped live on Cocker's 1970 Mad Dogs and Englishmen tour, which wasn't part of our collective high-school rock and roll experience. Speaking for myself, one of the relatively few who coughed up the ruinous price of, what? $4.75 ? for the double LP, it was a little depressing to hear the live performance. The horn solos were poorly crafted and sounded distant, and the whole shape of the mix felt wrong in comparison with the single, probably because of the difficulties mic'ing practically 3 dozen musicians out in the field. The performance here, though, was a studio rehearsal recording that was rushed out by A&M records to promote the tour while it was still in progress. The horns have real presence in the studio mix, especially the straightforward, rocking trumpet and tenor solos.

So why does the "mothership" corporate oldies network, which seems to occupy 97.9 on the FM dial no matter what city you drive through, play the album version instead of the hit single? My guess is that it has something to do with bundles of "intellectual property" that they license from the corporate copyright holders and force-feed to listeners until they sicken of it. And so, in the bargain, they colonize our pop music memories just like the East India Company colonized south Asia 400 years ago. Countless original performances and mixes become unknown to younger generations of listeners. Yet there's a backhanded benefit to this trend: lots of goodies that have been stashed in the closets of collectors eventually emerge on places like YouTube, unruined by corporate stress rotation.

The Letter, Joe Cocker with Leon Russell and The Shelter People (1970, 45 rpm single A&M 1174), via YouTube, embedded for noncommercial critical discussion and educational purposes.

Fun fact: Cocker is 40 years older, to the day, than Beer-D. Please make a note of it.

After hours

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Apropos of nothing, here's a nice snapshot of Norma Jean Baker looking young and somewhat indisposed, getting fingerprints all over her 10 in. 78 rpm hit parader. I wonder what's going on here: it's a flash photo, but the outdoor light could indicate either twilight or dawn (noting that her makeup looks too fresh for a dawn after a late night). Her face and hair style look similar to her appearance in a 1954 wedding photo alongside Joe DiMaggio; did he take the picture? (Lucky slob.) The room's furnishings look mismatched and ratty, so I'd be surprised if the picture was taken in her own home. Questions, questions flooding the mind after hours.

Image linked from How To Be A Retronaught; original post attributed to Dangerous Minds.

Sunday after hours

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There is only one reason I'd ever post such a thing to this blog. See if you can guess what it is.



A Walk In The Black Forest, Horst Jankowski (1965, Mercury Records [catalog information unavailable]), via YouTube, embedded for noncommercial critical discussion and educational purposes.

Editor's note: some wags might consider this tune 1965's answer to Kyu Sakamoto's 1963 hit, "Sukiyaki," and also to the eternal question "Who won World War II, you so smart?"

Friday Evening After Hours

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This balls-heavy power trio track from Frank Zappa's Apostrophe(') album has always been linked in my mind to the approach of a certain monstrous, torrential chain-lightning storm as heralded by gorgeously hideous thunderheads the color of lead and a curiously refreshing 20 mph wind out of the west.



I'm certain that this tune would make a terrific soundtrack for the approach of Hurricane Irene assuming that (1) you and yours are personally safe, (2) all irreplaceable valuables are secured in a watertight fortress, (3) you are fully insured, and (4) you don't live within reach of the storm surge. Lotta ifs, I know. But what else can a Simple Country Editor offer other than best wishes and exciting incidental music?

Seriously, this is one of the most interesting power trio jams I've ever heard, with Jack Bruce strangling a dramatic fuzz-bass fanfare-style solo from his instrument right out of the gate. Then, once Bruce's hyperactive "preliminaries" are concluded, Zappa slips in from rhythm to an aggressive, precision solo that reminds me of a serpent's tongue made out of piano wire. It slashes its way through or around all obstacles popping out of the rhythm bed, where Bruce is still strumming away like Oedipus plucking at his own optic nerves. This is one of those tracks (and albums) that you have to own on high-quality physical media and pump hard through a nice set of real headphones at 11. Even on a simple track like this one, Zappa had a lot of things going on deeper in the mix that are lost in MP3 files and computer headphones.

I hope anyone in the hurricane path who might be listening and reading along comes through it all with nothing worse than a wet bird, as Sinatra used to say.

Apostrophe', Frank Zappa (1974, from "Apostrophe(')," DiscReet DS 2175), via YouTube, embedded for noncommercial critical discussion and educational purposes.

Cavalcade of marsupials

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It turns out I was correct about the massing of the terror prowling the night kitchen here in my private domain, The United State Of Moronica. Not a mouse. And happily, not a rat. Fifty50 reader Carlos Magnus was kind enough to lend me a small steel live trap, which I deployed Monday night somewhat arbitrarily in front of the basement door against the breakfast nook wall. I loaded the bait tray with a nice Japanese rice cracker thinly coated with peanut butter on each side (for good adhesion to the tray).

At about 0330, around the corner from the head of my bed, I heard something fairly large but sluggish rattling around in the cage. Since I hadn't set the catches on the trap correctly, my prey almost worked himself out before I got him out the front door. Not a raccoon, either: a possum that was almost too large for the cage! Since this drill interrupted a sleep cycle I could barely navigate or perceive what was happening, but felt satisfied with my high-level trapping achievement and quickly drifted off as soon as I hit the mattress.

On a whim, "just in case," I reset the trap again the next night. And I'll be a suck-egg mule if I didn't hear the goddam cage rattling around at the crack of 0230! Luckily, this coincided with the conclusion of a sleep cycle, apparently, and I had the presence of mind to grab the Nikon D80 and take a mugshot of this guy.

Not the same prisoner I took the previous night. Significantly smaller. For reference, the baseboard behind him is about 3 inches high. I was pleased that the creature remained calm and also well behaved, elimination-wise. Having set the trap latches correctly this night, I carried the trap onto the porch and gave him early parole. Of course, on the third night, when I caught another motherfucking possum (same trap, same place, at about 0130 this time), it occurred to me that the specimen pictured above might have found his way back into the crib from the staging area of my porch. He seemed a bit smaller than Two of 4, though (that's right---four!), so it may have been another sibling. Anyway, with great cunning I released the latest addition to my collection all of 15 feet away from the porch, and he made a beeline across the street to hopefully break into a neighbor's house.

Last night, I deployed two live traps (one in the basement) and came up with No. 4 at about 0230; possibly even a bit smaller than No 3. This time I let my captive chill in the cage on the porch for the duration and took him into work with me. While tempted to release him in the foyer of Rudy's apartment building or inside of Walmart on Prospect, I found an unkempt field for the release. Understandably, Four of 4 was showing some teeth to reflect his poor attitude after a noisy, bumpy ride in in the back compartment of the station wagon, but still behaved well enough.

So tonight, in a few minutes I'll swallow a handful of pills and wash 'em down with 8 oz of gin in preparation for bedtime. But again with double-barrel traps baited with a succulent midnight snack for the herd of marsupials in the basement.

Saturday After Hours

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About 40 minutes ago I sent the manuscript of the book I'm editing to the author. It's a monster job, and there will be plenty more editorial work to do after author revisions, but it should be much less intensive than what I've just completed. The immediate significance of this milestone should be a big drop in subliminal stress, a possible moderation of blood pressure, and a general boost to my quality of life. Also, slightly less-lazy blogging behavior.

Speaking of monsters, last night while trying to sleep I heard something very ungainly-sounding that was ratfucking the dirty dishes on my kitchen countertop. It sounded more massive than a mouse, and got into things that mice haven't gotten into before. Coming downstairs just now to call it an evening, I heard some more sounds, this time apparently coming from the basement. As I started to descend the stairwell to investigate, I heard some very peculiar sounds that may have been vocalizations---low and suppressed, short impulses mostly, that could have come from a bird (crow, grackle, or starling), a squirrel that is unhappy, or even a raccoon. I shut the basement door and won't think about it any more until the motherfucker has starved to death.

Enough. Nighty night.

Friday Evening After Hours

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You ain't so well-to-do
Unless you got a little koo-chee-koo



Sad but true. However, most of us weren't endowed at birth with the considerable talent, charm, and other assets of Mr. Bull Moose Jackson. There's a nice, concise Wikipedia bio of him at the other end of this link. He blows melodic lines with a big, smooth classic tenor R&B sound during intermissions from his vocals. His lyrics are always full of good humor, especially when he steps a bit over the line into lewd territory (not here so much as in fan favorites like "Bow Legged Woman" and "Big 10 Inch [Record]"). And he sings in a voice of the people---unremarkable in terms of sonority, maybe, but delivered with punch and excellent phrasing.

Editor's note: to enhance your enjoyment of this song, it is recommended that you close your eyes for the duration. The video is an excruciatingly embarrassing thing to behold and will distract you like the stare of a cobra. Also, the catalog information below may not be correct since the discography typesetting on my Charly (record label) compilation is garbled and misaligned. Thank you for your attention to these matters.

If You Ain't Lovin', Bull Moose Jackson (1955, 78 rpm single King 4775), via YouTube, embedded for noncommercial critical discussion and educational purposes.

Saturday After Hours (Prayer Meeting)

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That's death
That's what all the people say

On this day in history, 14 May 1998, Mr. Francis Albert Sinatra flew the coop (i.e., this mortal realm) with the parting words to his wife, "I'm losing it...." (I believe the Wikipedia account of this is incorrect or incomplete based on my memory of news coverage at that time.) But tonight I will bypass the obvious choice for commemorating the occasion---"That's Life"---and defer to my ultimate Sinatra cut.



For my money, his phrasing on this is perfect---immaculately understated, which often it was not when he felt the urge to play the aging ring-a-ding hipster or just goof around in live performances. As much as I esteem the vocal, I feel that the real star of this cut is the Nelson Riddle arrangement and the way he conducts his orchestra through it. It sparkles, reflecting the interplay of reedy cross-breezes both near and distant, with clear water surfaces lapping easily at beachfront sand. I've never been able to describe to myself in words what I find so artful and organic about this chart, where string tremolos emerge at the end of a jaunty, muted-horn line and muscular but laconic reed figures leave holes for the similarly reedy organ in the higher registers. Speaking of the organ, the way it is "stopped" fascinates me. In any other setting I think it would sound cheesy and trivial, but here it supplies an essential vibe to the entire mix; the sound would be impoverished without it.  (Editor's note: Mr. Crutch does not consider this to be an adequate verbal account of the "feel," but he tried nevertheless. Please make a note of it.)

As an aside, I don't think it's too geezerly to argue that in 1966, in Chicago and all over America, both radio (AM!) and pop music were much richer and more urbane than they ever were again. It was the closing of a sort of innocent era in broadcast mass media, where the music sales charts weren't fragmented ad infinitum by age group, region, race, and purchasing power for the benefit of advertisers. "Top 40" really did mean "Top 40," and it didn't matter whether the performers on "the survey" were the Stones, or The Four Tops, or Simon and Garfunkle, or Sinatra, Roger Miller, The Sandpipers, Dusty Springfield, Ramsey Lewis, or Mitch Ryder, the Hollies, Martha and the Vandellas, or... Nancy Sinatra. If you listened to WLS or WCFL during this brief era, you heard it all on an equal footing, presented by trusted curators such as Dex Card and Ron Riley. Sure, a kid wouldn't necessarily admit to his friends that he liked "A Walk in the Black Forest," by Horst Jankowski; or "Sweet Talkin' Guy," by The Chiffons, but many of these sounds wormed their way through his tender little auditory cortex to next in the memory stacks, there to vibrate deep within for decades or more.

Anyway, back to the libretto: here's hoping that Frank didn't really lose it on that 14th day of May. And as for the sarcastic-seeming epigraph at the beginning of this post; no disrespect is intended. I intended it as a tribute of sorts to Sinatra's legendary crudeness on and off stage, well documented in Kitty Kelly's biography of him. These things about Sinatra you have to take alongside the pensive stylings of this gifted, juvenile, complex, and often-tortured guy.

Summer Wind, Frank Sinatra with the Nelson Riddle Orchestra (1966, from "Strangers In The Night," Reprise Records, catalog information not available), via YouTube, embedded for noncommercial critical discussion and educational purposes.

Friday after hours

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If memory serves me correctly, there is a birthday boy out there on the World Wide Web tonight (May 6) who isn't me, yet shares a birthday with those two international icons of love: the Eiffel Tower (1889) and Rudolph Valentino (1895). He has a number in his pseudonym, and this song is dedicated to him. "Blue Turk" is the touching story of a young man who gets all wound up on booze with a babe, and then discovers both delusional wicked delights and the true meaning of post-coital depression.



From one of my favorite albums, and not performed in a musical style that most people would associate with Alice Cooper.

Blue Turk, Alice Cooper (1972, from "School's Out," original LP release Warner Bros. Records BS 2623), via YouTube, embedded for noncommercial critical discussion and educational purposes.

Friday Evening, Way After Hours

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Phone snapshot from a Friday evening field trip to the Metro in Wrigleyville, Chicago, to see The Eels, 1 October 2010.

Dramatis personnae, from left: P-Boo, Koool G Murder, Knuckles, Mark Oliver Everett (E, band leader), and The Chet.

The shorties and I have seen this band four times now. They first caught my ear, and the offsprings', on the University of Illinois college rock station in the late '90s with "Novocain For The Soul." Geezers: you've probably heard something by E in a movie or on TV (click through the Wiki link above). The man has been---and appears to remain---a tortured soul, who has been plagued not only by the loss and alienation well known to anyone who explores so-called romantic love, but traumatic losses to death during more tender years. Two of the performances we've seen have been skewed toward his more introspective, even bordering on maudlin, lyrical compositions. They are outstanding and unique compositions, often voiced with anachronistic instruments like the harmonium, the saw and bow, the autoharp, and even a drumkit fashioned from vintage luggage and (I think) a leather ottoman. I'm biased toward shows with more upbeat content, humor, and electric power. The Metro show fell into that latter category, mostly delivered by three guitars (including E's odd-looking collection of Danelectros), bass, and drums.

I'm not so good at remembering song names by latter-day bands these days, so I can't authoritatively report the set list. (Beer-D or Dutch Boy, Esquire [freshly minted by the Illinois Bar 2 hours before the show], feel free to document it in the comments.) As usual, E provided a little clowning with, apropos of nothing, two summer-themed oldies: "Summer In The City" and Billy Stewart's arrangement of Gershwin's "Summertime" (during which the snap above was, er... snapped). I say "clowning" because during "Summertime," he flung ice cream bars, popsicles, and Drumsticks across the main floor and in the balcony of the small 19th century auditorium. I was trying to catch a Drumstick when I should have been shooting pictures.

Here's a live TV studio performance by the Eels With Strings lineup we saw several years ago at the Park West in Chicago, minus their glamorous eveningwear. This is the most upbeat tune I remember from that tour. Note the drumkit. Also note E's choice of vocal microphone, the classic "green bullet," a vintage-design, low-def analog radio dispatcher's mic adopted by the postwar generation of blues harpists to help amplify their Hohner Marine Band harmonicas.



Hey Man (Now You're Really Living), Eels With Strings (2005, live performance on "Later... With Jools Holland," BBC Two), via YouTube, embedded for noncommercial critical discussion and educational purposes.

September 11, 2010 [updated]

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Most commemoration of the violent "Muslim" attacks on New York City and elsewhere, which occurred on the subject date 9 years ago, just leaves me wondering. Ccreeped out and revolted, too.

Most TYPICAL AMERICANS are expected, from what I can tell, to believe that this EVIL MUSLIM  force majeure from the skies "essentially free[d] both parties from liability or obligation [because it was an] extraordinary event or circumstance beyond the control of the parties... [that] prevent[ed] one or both parties from fulfilling their obligations under the contract." That is, THE CONTRACT.

And furthermore, in order to visibly document one's strong approval of how one or both of those parties did perform, even though they didn't, TYPICAL AMERICANS are expected, from what I can tell, to publicly express strong, heartfelt patriotic opinions about American righteousness in the face of those attacks. And in order to meet the approval of TRUE PATRIOTS, though, everyone instinctively knows it is best to pretend, fetishistically, that we are very sad, or very angry, or very defiant, or very solemn about these events even though we, ourselves, were not harmed on that date; and no one we know lost limb or life, either. And even though all of us are constantly indoctrinated by corporate-sponsored media to understand that the East Coast, north of the Confederate States of America, is a decadent hive of scum and villainy. As well as some other places.

Therefore, I strongly recommend that you read this recap, by Fairness and Accuracy In Reporting (FAIR), documenting how mainstream corporate media rapidly volunteered to serve as a cat's paw for America's right-wing "assignment editors" as they fabricated false connections, slanderously, between EVIL MUSLIMS and AMERICAN LIBERALS:

At least one commentator blamed the left for the attacks themselves. Columnist Steven Schwartz (New York Post, 9/12/01) wrote that "the anti-globalist rioters seek to intimidate world capitalism into shutting down altogether, and the distance between breaking the windows of McDonald's to achieve that end and blowing up the World Trade Center is pretty damned narrow."

I think this FAIR article is important because, to me, it undeniably illustrates the core sickness of so many self-identified Republicans, conservatives, Tea Partiers, rednecks, and "patriots" today: the readiness to either seize or create opportunities to slander, silence, and if necessary eliminate people THE OTHER. That is, everyone who looks like they do not belong to THE TRIBE. Routinely, the opportunity to vilify THE OTHER is driven entirely by paranoic fanasy or prima facie hate. And journalists are paid to pretend that they are blind and deaf to this.

In advance, I apologize for the churlishness with which I may respond to any assertion that "both sides do it." No, they don't. In America, they really really don't. But the Kens and Barbies who staff our nation's network and cable news shops pretend that they don't know that. They are key members of the ideological lynch mob that has held this nation in fear and moral atrophy for 3 decades.

Update: here's another example of a perverted lunatic spinning slanderous "theories" about liberals with full impunity granted corporate journalists. Although he immediately quit his position as Georgia representative and Speaker of the House, in disgrace, upon being re-elected in 1998, Newt Gingrich is still highly regarded by the polite establishment as a political visionary. He claims, whether in sincerity or deception, that in effect Barack Obama is de Mau Mau incarnate. His motives mostly don't matter; what matters is that he's still portrayed as a policy expert and political bellwether by the media lie machines.

Editor's notes: (1) Rubber Crutch's decision to post this item on September 12, not September 11, was fully intentional. (2) Yes, he did knowingly begin this counter-commemoration post with a strange but genuine Wikipedia/Fifty50 "mashup." (3) This post is likely to need subsequent editorial review for after-hours booboos that elude detection at this hour. (4) Thank you for your attention to these matters.

Another birthday boy: The Bird (29 August 1920)

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Today Charlie Parker would have turned 90. His birth date has been lodged in my head since 1980, when I listened to a live birthday tribute concert from the Chicago Jazz Festival on WBEZ-FM. It featured Dizzy Gillespie, James Moody, and other luminaries that I don't remember at the moment. Anyway, here's the Bird with big band recorded in March 1952, one of a handful of sessions he did in the studio with a big band, as opposed to small combo or strings.



Yes, it's that "Night and Day," featured on this very blog last night as performed by Earl Bostic. Both sides were recorded within, at most, 3 or 4 years of each other --- one being a dance tune for teen parties, the other being bop in a jazz/pop setting.

The CD compilation on which this tune appears, Charlie Parker Big Band, collects several sessions from the early 1950s. The bands are staffed by both veteran and rising stars of the era. This performance boasts a rhythm section with Oscar Peterson (p), Ray Brown (b), and Freddie Green (g). Another session features Charlie Mingus (b) and Max Roach (d), not to mention Miles Davis french horn blower Junior Collins (from Birth Of The Cool). A third session features Fifty50 hero Buddy Rich.

Strangely, this YouTube clip appears to come from one of the virtual radio stations --- "Jazz Nation Radio 108.5" --- embedded in the Grand Theft Auto video game. And judging from the YouTube comments, at least a few shorties think it's awesome.

Happy birthday, Yardbird.

Night And Day, Charlie Parker and big band (1952, from "Charlie Parker Big Band," track 6; Verve reissue of Mercury 11068), via YouTube, embedded for noncommercial critical discussion and educational purposes.

Friday Evening Prayer Meeting

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Here's a Beach Boys production by the pensive and melancholy Brian Wilson at the height of his creative powers in 1966, as he was beginning to unravel:



Current references to Brian Wilson liken him to someone's crazy uncle, and I've read quotes attributed to him that seem to verify that. But in 1966, well established as the creative leader of THE pop group that defined, exemplified, and sanctified American youth hedonism for a short time before hippiedom emerged, Wilson was a highly sensitive and troubled soul. There are many accounts of the "battle of the bands" Wilson had with the Beatles across the sea at mid-decade --- not a hostile one --- with each group upping the ante of experimentation in response to a release by the other. This began with Brian's reaction to Rubber Soul, after a period of his own studio and lyrical experimentation. He both complimented the Beatles and tried to even top them in the studio with orchestrations, electronics, and even oddball instrumental voicings such as a boogie-inflected solo the lowest register of an accordion in I Know There's An Answer.

When listening to Pet Sounds as an adult I've always felt there was much more to Wilson's brooding instrumentations and lyrics than merely "youthful angst," as Wikipedia glibly calls it. He was not only haunted by the fleeting nature of love, which songs like Caroline, No deal with directly, but his use of psychedelic drugs seems to have helped to intensify his sense of alienation from much of humanity, including womankind and his bandmates. They lyrics of this song depict a very fragile, if self-centered, young man. The honesty and vulnerability of the lyric and performance, to my ears, raise it far above the maudlin result that this sort of creative outcrying often produces.

But listen to the music. Chances are you've never heard this song before because it never charted and you probably didn't own the album. The Beach Boys had become very uncool in a heartbeat by the end of 1967, being eclipsed by "heavy" acts like Hendrix and the Doors... and of course, The Beatles. By that point Wilson had lost creative and operational control of the group, and in my opinion almost all of the band's good work was now behind it.

If you hear some of the "genetic material" from Good Vibrations floating around in the gorgeous backgrounds of this number, it's because Brian was assembling this album concurrently with the orchestral and studio experiments that finally evolved into his signature trippy surfer "pocket symphony." (I believe that Wikipedia is incorrect, at least partially, about the sequence of Pet Sounds and Good Vibrations because there are dated rehearsal recordings that contradict that.)

Anyway, listen to the jangly rhythm sounds near the beginning of the cut; what instruments is he mixing down to get that effect, and how? Wilson was a master of audio synthesis, carefully blending and balancing unusual instrumental combinations on tape. Pianos, guitars, Farfisa organ, mallet percussion like the celeste, unified into a sound from which it is difficult to extract the individual components. Also, in this clip, don't miss the Theremin solo on the outchorus --- a poignant little line and, in my opinion, a much more memorable use of the instrument than on Good Vibrations. (Actually, I just read that it was an Electro-Theremin, inspired by the Theremin but different in terms of electronics and controls.)

You can read about Pet Sounds, Good Vibrations, and Wilson's ill-fated Smile album on Wikipedia, album jackets, and elsewhere, as well as their relation to Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Heart's Club Band. Wilson got to feeling as if he were in a doomed race to the next big thing with the Beatles, in the process becoming frenetic, obsessive, frustrated, difficult, and withdrawn while producing tracks for the "failure" of an album that produced Heroes and Villains, Wild Honey, and Darlin'.

I intend to post more Beach Boys, particularly Brian Wilson, in the future. This is a band that is very easy for both self-conscious hipsters and discerning listeners to dismiss as simple, dated, and irrelevant. I disagree. I'm an admirer, and I have conjectured that had Wilson kept a level head on his shoulders and tamped down creative conflicts with other band members, the Beach Boys might have evolved into something very much along the lines of Pink Floyd. I hope to have several surprises in the foreseeable future.

Editor's note: due to the time stamp, this post qualifies for the category of Fifty50 After Hours, yet another copyrighted feature of this blog.

I Just Wasn't Made For These Times, Beach Boys (1966, from "Pet Sounds," Capitol Records), via YouTube, embedded for noncommercial critical discussion and educational purposes.

Fifty50 After Hours

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In order to preserve the temporal integrity of this blog, I present a new name for an established feature.  You will see it on the Saturday evenings when circumstances force me to click the "Publish Post" button after midnight.

So here, After Hours, I present to you a rock performance that in my opinion represents the precise origin lummox rock, and possibly even its apex.



At a neighborhood garage sale this morning I heard from inside the house this dirt simple, highly familiar guitar power chord vamp. But something about it seemed out of the ordinary to me --- way too mellow --- and I couldn't place it. The neighbor manning the cash box, an incorrigible "Deadhead," told me it was a Jerry Garcia composition called "Standing On The Moon." I suppose that it was, but not in my universe it wasn't. The vamp was supposed to be encrusted with thick distortion and reverb tomfoolery.

And then, while contemplating this disconnect, I immediately had a fleeting impression of an early '70s Chicago TV host, Svengoolie, who screened delectable monster movies late Friday nights on channel 32. Chicagoland natives of a certain age will remember the AM disc jockey Jerry G. Bishop, caked in white foundation makeup, raccoon eyes, ratty longhair wig and hippie headband, performing shtick in a Transylvania accent during the interstices between commercial and movie. And those individuals, like me, will likely remember the theme song for Svengoolie's Screaming Yellow Theater: "Rumble," by Link Wray. "Composed by Jerry Garcia," my foot. If George Harrison could be successfully sued for "subconsciously" plagiarizing the Chiffons hit "He's So Fine" when composing "My Sweet Lord," (a horseshit lawsuit, incidentally, in my highly learned opinion), then Garcia should have been thrown in a penitentiary for trying to disguise the heartbeat and pulse of  "Rumble" with insignificant variations, noodling accompaniments, and lyrics that should have been used somewhere else if at all.

Few rock historians doubt that "Rumble" is a seminal rock performance that inspired the next generation of garage musicians, etc. etc. But in my opinion that doesn't mean Wray was a musical visionary, as many contend. I don't mean that as a criticism of Wray and the Ray Men. It's just that I think "Rumble" was probably less a work of genius and more the product of some guys hypnotizing themselves with heavy guitar tones, primitive beats, studio effects, and about three quarts of Schlitz apiece.

Rumble, Link Wray (1958, Cadence single 1347, b/w The Swag), via YouTube.